


empty gold

by cruelworld



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: M/M, and then everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruelworld/pseuds/cruelworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It won't get any better from here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	empty gold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html?thread=963137#t963137) prompt over at the Shadowhunters Ficathon!
> 
> (this is my first fic in years. pls be nice)

The thing that the fledgling doesn't realize is that everything that he has is going to fade. Raphael and the clan, they're all that he has. His little crew of Shadowhunters – even the redhead who's constantly bursting into the hotel – they won't always be there. Of course, that's something that he's going to have to realize on his own.

It isn't a family. If it was, it would be the most fucked up one out there, but it's all that they've got. And the sooner it's accepted, the easier it will be.

\--

There's a night when the fledgling – Simon – when Simon goes missing. It has Raphael cursing his duties. He's cursing his obligation to the situation, almost wishing that he'd left the mundane dead at Camille’s feet. He's cursing the fact that he's pacing the streets in search of him. He’s cursing himself for wondering if any of this matters.

He doesn't know how long it's been before he stumbles upon the other, crumpled up on a bench in a park that Raphael has never seen before. There's a cross traced into the wood right next to where Simon is sitting. Raphael curls his hands into fists, an attempt to quell the sick urge to trace the mark with his finger despite knowing exactly what would happen in the event that he did.

“The sun will be up in two and a half hours,” he announces, keeping his voice even and emotionless.

Because the fledgling has enough emotion bottled up and shining through his eyes to last the both of them for the rest of eternity. “My mom used to take me here when I was a kid,” he says, as if the information is vital. “And now I can't see her?”

Raphael rolls his eyes. He knows that he looks bored. It's a look that he's perfected over the years. He reaches one of his hands out, locking his fingers around Simon’s wrist tightly to pull him to his feet. “Two and a half hours,” he repeats.

They walk for a few moments before Raphael releases his grasp. He know that the fledgling is following because he can hear the uneven breathing trailing behind him. He doesn't turn around, but speaks anyway.

“Remind me to take you to my favorite little cemetery in Brooklyn and tell you a bit about _my mother_. Trust me, fledgling. It won't get any easier from here.”

He swears he hears the hitch of Simon’s breath and he picks up the speed a touch. He’ll learn to keep up.

\--

Sometimes, Raphael remembers being thirteen and running in the streets with the sunlight beaming on his skin, leaving it tinged a warmer brown for the following weeks. He remembers his abuela standing in the kitchen for hours and working on dozens of recipes whose names slip his mind these days. He remembers the warm breath of his brothers on the shell of his ear as they whispered tales of the trouble that they'd caused.

He remembers and he regrets, but he accepts it because he doesn't have any choice in the matter.

\--

Simon is stood over a crumbled body and he looks more defeated than Raphael thinks that any person has any right to. He strides over, peering over Simon’s shoulder. This time, his appearance hasn't seemed to startle the fledgling.

He's finally learning.

“Death is beautiful, is it not?” he asks, skeptical that he'll get an answer that he deems passible.

Perhaps there will be far too much emotion again. He wants to believe that Simon is learning to reign them in. That he's learning to control himself. That's he's learning to feel numb because Raphael feels that it's the best way of dealing with these things.

Scuffing the toe of his shoe on the ground, Simon shrugs a shoulder as if he doesn't care. Raphael can sense that he does, but he won't mention it.

“Someone needs to get rid of it,” Simon mumbles, walking out of the room without looking back.

Raphael tries not feel too proud with how detached Simon seems from the situation. He snaps his fingers to draw the attention of somebody who would take care of this. Not something that he ought to have to deal with, was it?

\--

The older he gets, the more at peace Raphael feels. He doesn't have a lot to hold on to any longer. He has the clan. He has the small shred of power that he's been clinging to since he'd pried it out of Camille’s claws.

And sometimes? Sometimes, he has the fledgling.

\--

He hates Shadowhunter funerals and he's only attending out of obligation. There's something about the fact that the Lightwood girl has died that seems to draw out that feeling. That and the fact that the fledgling seems intent on attending.

He finds himself sitting alone as Simon has firmly entrenched himself within the ranks of those children he's seemed so enamored with. Clary on one side and Jace on the other. He wonders if the clave might see think it odd. Though they might be more concerned with the fact that Magnus Bane is in attendance, not a shred of glitter in his ensemble, holding onto to the Lightwood boy like he's terrified he's next.

The whole thing is a bit of a production. All that he hears all day is how talented of a young shadowhunter Isabelle Lightwood was and he thinks to himself that can't be very true because the talented ones are still around.

He smiles to himself and ignores the glares from those that had to have been expecting it. How crass of a downworlder to laugh at a funeral.

\--

That night is the first time they fuck.

Simon is on him the moment that they enter the hotel. He crashes their lips together like it’s a battle and he's pulling at Raphael’s clothes, begging. He's begging like this is the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He's begging like he needs this. He's begging like he needs Raphael.

Buttons fly across the room and the sound of tearing fabric echoes through the room until they're pressed together. Skin on skin. It should be a pleasant heat, but neither of them produces much warmth.

There are fingers fumbling at zippers then pulling down anything that's separating them until there's nothing and Simon whines deep in his throat. It almost sounds like growl. It almost sounds needy. It almost matters.

No time is wasted prepping anything. Raphael simply eases himself into Simon who scrapes his fingernails firmly down Raphael’s back and repeats his name like a prayer. It's the only prayer that he has anymore and Raphael wonders if he realizes. He thrusts a little harder then.

\--

They lie together afterwards and neither of them says a word.

\--

The rest of them drop like houseflies after that and Simon hardly seems to notice. Until it's that Clary girl.

Raphael doesn't attend that funeral, simply waiting outside of the Institute to wait for Simon. They walk back to the hotel in silence and Simon doesn't say a word for the next three days.

After that, they don't leave Raphael’s bedroom for the next six.

\--

They're surrounded by tiny liquor bottles and Simon smiles. He actually smiles. Raphael's body betrays him as he mirrors the action. There's no rhyme or reason to what they're doing and that's just the way that it should be.

Simon is sprawled across the floor like it's where he was born to be. He raises his head and quirks an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Raphael?”

He looks over at the other boy, not saying a word.

“It won't get any better from here, huh?”

“Won't get better from here,” Raphael confirms.

Then Simon's laughing until Raphael shuts him up with a kiss.


End file.
